Things between Galina and I were going great. I had a female friend that could relate to me, shared many of my interests, was intelligent, and whom I felt no pressure to fuck, even though she was upfront about finding me attractive.
So what happened?
A few months into this friendship, some time after I’d been giving a certain dating website a try and having success, I recommended it to Galina. It wasn’t long before she joined as well, having her inbox flooded with messages, and she’d update me on her experiences when we’d hang out. Since I’d learned a bit on Game by that point, I would give her my perspective on her suitors and their efforts.
There was one guy in particular (we’ll call him “Robert”) that, from his behavior, seemed like he knew a bit of Game. My mentioning this piqued her interest, so over the next few days she spent a bit of time picking my brain on the subject. This information would later be weaponized…
Anywho, Galina started seeing Robert, then eventually entered an exclusive relationship with him. Partly because he was a bit of a fitness freak, and partly because she deceived him in with photos of when she weighed a bit less, Robert had her ass in the gym on a regular basis. This was both good, and bad. Galina’s progress brought about changes which, well, escalated things between us.
Ah, Galina. Where do I begin?
“Galina” was a friend I met during my time in art school, and part of my incestuous circle of friends. Unlike the rest of the crew though, it wasn’t a geographical change that brought distance between us. Before a strange mix of personality quirks and events brought us apart, we were actually very close.
I believe the reasons we were so close were that we’d both experienced the horrors of armed conflict in our youths, both had IQ’s in the top seven percent, and both were a bit older (I was in my late 20’s, and she was in her mid 30’s) than the college students we found ourselves surrounded by daily. Also, at least on her end, Galina was unapologetic about the fact that she was sexually attracted to me…
Our interests in psychology, foreign films, and most of all, alcohol, were definitely big factors also. Galina was a self proclaimed wino, and though wine has never been my alcoholic beverage of choice, spending time with her definitely caused me to warm up to it. But I’m probably skipping over a few things…
a dandy admiring his own reflection
In past posts, I’ve made comments in passing about my “Game”, the most recent example being in “On Others’ Infidelity“. Since this topic will be central in upcoming stories, I think it’s time I said at least something on it.
The way I’ve put it previously is that my Game consists of me “showing up, looking pretty, and not shooing women away too sternly”, but I’d be lying if I said that was it. At least, presently. In the past, that would have been an accurate description. Today, it might look the same, but only to laymen. Oftentimes, Game is about what you don’t do.
Before learning proper Game, mine consisted of what pick-up artists call “Pretty Boy Game” and “Natural Game”. The former for being…well, pretty, and self-aware about it, and the latter coming from the dominant mindset that being found physically attractive by many women granted me (much of Game consists of miming or internalizing an “alpha male” attitude).
The picture used in my post on sluts got me thinking of my past experience with jailbait (funny that the girls in the slut post look more jailbaity than the ones I’m using for this post), and I thought I should share it.
This was back when I was still working with the crew mentioned throughout the “Christina Saga”. My buddy “Fred” and I were on the job late one Friday night, driving stuff back and forth in our work vehicle—which happened to be a massive, turbo-charged truck—when this all went down.
While waiting at a red light, a little Honda Accord pulled up two lanes over from us…and it was chock-full of chicks. So I smack Fred on the shoulder and call him over to my window. “Bro! Check it out…” Fred leans over to look, and his eyes widen. “Uhhhh, hello? What the fuck are you waiting for?! Honk the horn!” So I hang my left elbow out of my window, and give the horn two good presses with my right hand. The girls all look over, and in unison, let out a “WOOOH!” while shooting their girly little fists into the air.
“WHATSUP?!”, Fred shouts across the way…
“WHERE’S THE PARTY AT?!” one of them shouts back…
Some of these girls look a little young to play the part, don’t they?…
Seeming that I’ve used the term at least once or twice, I thought I should get around to sharing my thoughts on it. This can be a very divisive subject, but I have a bit I’d like to say about it.
My definition for the word “slut” is simple: A woman* that (seemingly) sleeps around indiscriminately.
*(More on this in a bit…)
Not as easy to follow, it seems, is when I state that my use of the word “slut” is descriptive, not normative. In other words, I’m not making a moral judgement when I use the term. In the past, I’ve had people jump down my neck when I’ve used the term, screeching that I’m a “slut shamer”, “sex negative”, or whatever the hell else kids are saying these days, but that’s based on their notions of the term, not mine.
I mean, wouldn’t it be a bit out of character for a guy that benefits from women’s looseness to be out to make them more sexually inhibited?
Let’s address that asterisk, though. So, why do I—unless I’m joking—reserve the term “slut” for women? The short answer is that I accept reality. Here’s the longer version:
This post is not about food…
In a previous post, I went over how I use “talking” as an aid to arouse and/or bring women to orgasm. While I went into some of the intricacies, I left out specifics. Today, I want to talk about one of those specifics, and the trouble it’s gotten me into. When I first learned, first hand, about the way that this specific topic turns some women into wild, reckless beasts, I was kind of taken aback.
You could say I was still a bit of a Committed Man at heart back then, and this meant that I actually believed that women were what they said they were. (Turns out these claims were mostly soulless regurgitations of characteristics they borrowed from the cultural narrative on feminine propriety…)
So, imagine naive Jack’s surprise when, upon first giving the subject of insemination a try during some of his mid-sex “talking”, it turned a woman that had previously behaved as if she was perfectly happy with condom use, into an aggressive, cum-fiending succubus. This was, of course, Liz.
It’s one of my fond memories. Just minutes before things went all crazy, she’d been posing nude for me to draw her, but that didn’t last long. Some time into our fuck session, while licking and nibbling on her ear lobe, I whispered that I wanted to dump all of my cum deep inside of her wet little pussy really badly, and she let out a moan like I’d never heard before. It was like an “Oh yes!” and an “Oh no, what have you unleashed?!”, all mixed into one. Oh, what came next…
In keeping with the theme of my last few posts, I wanted to share a story about a time in which my adventures with “taken” women actually went less than stellar. Navigating the seas of women can be rough, but never as much as when the other man is a friend, and the woman is a dunce.
The girl in question—we’ll call her “Caprice”—is what I’d call a social climber, though in this instance, she was more of a social lateral mover. Caprice met my friend, whom we’ll call “Duane”, after one of her girlfriends was invited to hang out by a co-worker of ours. I wasn’t around when this went down, but by the time I met her, Duane and her were already dating…more or less (more on this later).
It was at another social gathering with the same group of friends that I first met her. For Caprice, I think it was pretty much lust at first sight. I would have needed to be partly blind to miss the fact that she was eye-fucking me the entire night.
(Jeebuz! What is it with me always attracting sluts? Does my resting asshole face also read as an “I love sluts!” face?)
When the night wound down, and I was getting ready to split, Caprice asked to borrow my phone. Apparently, she’d left hers out in her car, and “needed” to call it to check her inbox. Now, maybe I have too much sex on my mind (it’s true), but I totally took this as her making a move on me. If you’re not convinced by the things that sex-crazed Jack tells himself, though, then consider that Duane was nearby, and his cell phone was sitting on the coffee table right in front of him. If you’re still not convinced about my assessment, then…keep reading.